


searching for the human moments

by gointorosedale



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Golden Lace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gointorosedale/pseuds/gointorosedale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we laugh<br/>and it pits the world against us, we laugh,<br/>and we’ve got nothing left to lose, and our hearts<br/>turn red, and the river rises like a barn on fire.</p><p>A series of Rumbelle ficlets, to be updated whenever it strikes my fancy. Will probably range from fluffy to angsty to AU, set in the Dark Castle and Storybrooke and everything in between. Mostly Golden Lace, at this point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. true story strength

**Author's Note:**

> Lately I've found out that I actually really enjoy writing Rumple and Belle, so, here it is. I honestly haven't got a clue as to when I'll update so it's pretty much whenever I feel like but they're all unconnected so it shouldn't matter much anyway.

Belle is delighted the day she first enters Rumplestiltskin's workroom to bring him tea and finds it full of books, but her delight quickly wanes when she realizes they're all scientific works, geography and alchemy and god-only-knows.

“It's not that there's anything wrong with that,” she says as she pages through one of the thick, leather-bound books. This one seems to be about astrology, judging from the star charts and Belle takes a moment to wonder if she could convince Rumplestiltskin to take her to the turrets to stargaze. “But don't you ever feel like reading fiction?”

She turns to look at Rumplestiltskin, standing near his worktable. His hands are clasped together awkwardly, like he's trying to tamp down on his instinctive reaction to push her out of the room. Belle imagines he is. After all, he's probably been on his own for longer than she has been alive, and Belle is sure that in that time very few people actually entered this room.

Rumplestiltskin shrugs, eying her warily. Belle holds onto the book, stubbornly trying to prove that the whole castle won't fall to ruins simply because she's touching his things. If she's to spend the rest of eternity here, cleaning the place and tending to it, then Rumplestiltskin will have to learn to live with her touching his things.

“Personally,” Belle continues, “Nothing cheers me up like tales of far-off places and daring princesses off to save the day.” She smiles fondly, thinking of her books, the many nights she's spent curled up in bed with one.

It seems to snap Rumplestiltskin out of his awkward limbo and Belle can practically see the imp return to its body as he suddenly finds himself on familiar ground. His entire posture changes, more loose-limbed and unreserved, with an underlying tension that never seems to leave.

He saunters over and taps her on the nose.

“Ah, you see, frivolous little stories about silly princesses never led to anything good,” he says, arching an eyebrow as if to say _look where it got you._ “Now this,” Rumplestiltskin continues as he plucks the book out of her hand and holds it up for a second before paging through it himself. “This serves many purposes. Yes, yes, see?” He holds the book out, folded open, and says, “This bit explains how to spell a man into a frog, simply by having the moonlight hit him correctly. And this,” here he pages further, “this tells you how to turn a whole town to dust without breaking a sweat.”

He looks proud, holding his book up. Belle smiles indulgently and watches him for a second before plucking it out of his hands. Her fingers brush Rumplestiltskin's as she does so and for a second, he looks down at his hands in confusion.

“And yet,” she says as she turns around and puts the book back between the others on the bookcase. “My frivolous tales got me to save my friends, my family.” Belle stands with her back to Rumplestiltskin for a second, breathing against the still-raw pain when she thinks of her dear father.

After a beat she exhales, turns around, looks Rumplestiltskin in the eye. “My frivolous little tales may not teach me how to vanquish entire towns or defeat all my enemies, but they teach me the fact that I can, if I want to.”

Rumplestiltskin huffs, but he doesn't say anything and there's something like respect dawning behind his eyes. When Belle raises herself up and saunters out and he still doesn't speak, she counts it as a victory.


	2. more than gloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a meeting between spinner!Rum and princess!Belle, in some strange AU timeline where these two existed at the same time. Because of reasons.

Rumplestiltskin is on his way back from the market at the town square when it happens. He's just traded away his wool for honest-to-god meat. It's not much – not even half a chicken – but it's only him and his boy and to Baelfire, it'll be a feast.

The overhead sky is a dreary gray and it makes the village look like a ghost town, even with the people outside going about their business. There's a rumble of people behind him, more noise than is usual for Rumplestiltskin's quiet little town, and he wonders if perhaps they've caught the perpetrator behind the recent string of murders.

The earth under Rumplestiltskin's feet is damp from dew and he's holding onto his staff as firmly as he can, but with the chicken in his other hand it's hard to keep his balance and he's entirely unsurprised when, after a while, he slips.

He holds onto the basket, knowing he'll have wasted a few days of work if the chicken becomes muddy, but his staff goes rolling. Even as Rumplestiltskin feels his bad knee hit the ground with a painful thunk, he feels humiliation bubble up, hot and acidic. He knows the town doesn't have any respect for him in the first place so he's not exactly losing face, but he hates the reminder all the same. He purposefully does not look around at the few children milling around on a doorstep nearby, and thanks the gods there aren't any passersby at the moment. 

Rumplestiltskin sets the basket down and pushes his good leg under himself, trying to leverage himself up. It doesn't work and only makes agony shoot up his leg to his spine, leaving him breathless and heaving. Gritting his teeth together, Rumplestiltskin resolves to crawl over to his staff but he doesn't get very far before two feet appear in front of him and a hand stretches out in front of his vision.

He looks up and it's a woman, dark curls falling over her shoulders as she leans down to help him up. She looks like a porcelain doll, small and delicate and beautiful, pale in a way the other villagers never are, pale like someone who doesn't have to spend all day working. Her eyes are shockingly light blue, the sky in late fall.

Rumplestiltskin takes her hand and it feels soft and smooth. She's surprisingly strong, pulling him to his feet to lean onto her shoulder and when she smiles, she reveals neat white teeth.

Not a simple peasant, Rumplestiltskin thinks dazedly as she hands him his staff.

He backs away instantly, hunching into the staff and he winces when he sees the shoulder of her pretty lavender dress, dirtied now by his own clothes.

“I'm sorry,” he says, stumbling over the words. He's never spoken to anyone of royal blood before but he has no doubt that she is. With her clothes, with her smile and her soft skin and even the way she holds herself, she has to be.

“I thought it was customary to say thank you when someone helped you, or is that different in your land?” She speaks with a strange accent and her tone is kind and genuinely curious, but Rumplestiltskin feels horror creep up in his throat when he realizes he hadn't thanked her.

“I'm sorry, yes, thank you,” he brings out, stumbling through a clumsy bow while clutching his staff like a lifeline.

She smiles, a harmless thing, and curtseys. “You're welcome.”

Rumplestiltskin doesn't know quite what to do. He's entirely out of element and he wants to go home to his son, but he's sure that simply walking away without being dismissed is rude but no one's ever curtseyed for him in his life and Rumplestiltskin is only spinner, he has no idea what he's supposed to do here.

“Do you need some help with that?” the woman asks, gesturing at the basket he's holding.

Rumplestiltskin shakes his head.

“Oh, please, let me help? I'll worry otherwise,” the woman goes on, tone pleading but careful, like talking to a wild animal. It does nothing to soothe Rumplestiltskin – rather it ruffles his feathers to be spoken to like that, to be reminded that to her he is less than human – but he doesn't dare say no. If she's indeed of royal blood, well, no good has ever come from saying no to them.

Rumplestiltskin nods.

Her face lights up at that and she reaches out to take the basket. Rumplestiltskin lets her and almost winces at the sight of her soft, clean hands closing around the rough wicker of the basket. He wants to go home, to pull Bae's face into his hip and run a hand through his hair and be anywhere but here, in the middle of the village, with a woman who could have him killed for saying the wrong thing.

They walk. Rumplestiltskin leans heavily on his staff, doing his best not to slip again. It is easier without the basket, but the woman trailing behind him is humming and the sound is so out of place that his attention keeps slipping to it. It sounds sweet and cheerful and not at all like the usual fast-paced songs the farmers sing when they're working. He imagines her – a princess in a tower, brushing her hair and humming softly.

By the time they get to Rumplestiltskin's little house, he's itching to get inside and close the door and forget all about this. The woman puts him on edge, so out of place, and he's sure she's powerful. In Rumplestiltskin's experience, powerful people always herald terrible things.

“That's where I live,” Rumplestiltskin says, gesturing at the house. He regrets, now, bringing her here. The rickety house with its door that creaks with every gust of wind and the rotting wood and smell of wet hay, the whole place must be such a wreck to a woman like her and Rumplestiltskin just wants to be rid of her, forget he ever saw her. He wants to sit down on the uncomfortable wooden chair and feel safe again.

The woman smiles again – and all those smiles are putting Rumplestiltskin on edge too, no one has cause to be _that_ happy – and moves to stand next to Rumplestiltskin in the door opening.

She holds out the basket and Rumplestiltskin is almost afraid to reach out, so he inches his hand forward slowly at first. When the woman only gives an encouraging nod, he snatches it out of her hand, embarrassed to find his hands are trembling.

The woman is still looking at him with a patient smile, so Rumplestiltskin gives an awkward nod. “Thank you,” he says again and his right hand is itching on the door, wanting to be home and safe but not sure if he should. He feels like he should be dismissed, but the woman is looking at him like she's waiting for him to act, to do something.

“I'm Rumplestiltskin,” he says in the end.

“I'm Belle,” she says. The name doesn't sound familiar but then again, Rumplestiltskin isn't exactly up-to-date with the names of the many princes and princesses of the realm. “Nice to meet you, Rumplestiltskin.” The way her face brightens further upon saying his name is making Rumplestiltskin uncomfortable.

“Nice to meet you too.” He pauses, waits for her to finally leave so he can get home. He's sure Bae is wondering what's taking him so long. She's still waiting so, trying for a tone of finality, he adds, “Belle.”

She smiles again, a pleased little thing, and steps back. “Goodbye, Rumplestiltskin,” Belle says with a small curtsey, before turning around and leaving.

Rumplestiltskin exhales heavily and opens his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to try writing spinner!Rum, but I may have gone a little overboard on the cowardice thing. I just think that Rumple just doesn't have time for bravery or curiosity or kindness towards strangers or anything, he's so focused on just keeping his son safe and happy and alive. Like, that's always going to be his primary concern and anything strange or out of the ordinary (like a princess) threatens that and is therefore to be feared. 
> 
> Also, yeah, I haven't got a clue what Belle is doing in Rumple's villlage.


	3. love hard as shrapnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lacey finally decides she's had enough of her controlling father and ends up in an unlikely place for comfort. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

It was inevitable, Lacey knows, that she and her father had this falling out. She loves him and he loves her, but he's never respected her as a person and in the end, it was only a matter of time.

It's something like relief that courses through Lacey as she slams the front door shut and turns around. She's breathing heavily and for a moment she imagines Moe on the other side of the door, looking broken-hearted and shocked, and that's what sets her walking. Because Moe did not see this coming at all, Lacey's sure. Moe – despite Lacey constantly reminding him that she's her own woman – still thinks of her as a non-person and that is exactly why she's leaving. She needs space to make her own decisions.

The streetlights glint in the water puddles on the asphalt as Lacey strides down the street, angry and thrumming. She's stormed out with nothing but the clothes on her back and no idea where to go and Lacey knows that if she goes to the diner, Ruby will be there to listen and offer her a place to stay, but for now Lacey is running on adrenaline and anger and she doesn't want to sit through Ruby's sympathetic cooing.

Instead, she heads in the opposite direction. The quick click of her heels is the only sound in the deserted street, for which Lacey is grateful. She's in no mood for noise or people, which is why she's avoiding The Rabbit Hole. A few drinks sounds nice, but Lacey doesn't want to deal with all the shouting and music and chaos.

In fact, the fresh air out here is nice. It's cold, but righteous anger and adrenaline keeps her warm and Lacey barely even notices as she strides through town.

Down the street, she sees lights are on in Mr. Gold's shop and before she's even thought it through, she's heading towards the shop. Lacey likes coming there. Gold's got some really nice vintage dresses and Lacey likes buying the cheaper ones to primp them up a bit, though she's sure she won't be buying any anytime soon. After all, leaving her dad means leaving her dad's shop, so as of today Lacey has no form of income. Still, the thought of the dimly-lit, overcrowded shop and its familiar musty smell is welcome.

When she enters the shop, Gold doesn't greet her or even look up, unlike most shopkeepers. He's tinkering with something behind the counter, but Lacey doesn't spend too much time watching him, instead heading for the clothing near the back. It's soothing, somehow, the quiet metallic sounds and dark shadows of the shop. Lacey's always liked coming there, even likes Gold's temperament. In a town full of smiling, simpering idiots all talking about the weather, Gold and his vicious wit is a nice change of pace. She's never spoken to him much, but she's heard him berate enough people to know.

Lacey starts out looking at a short blue dress but after a few seconds in the dark little corner of the shop she finds her thoughts drifting away, eyes closing. She can feel the pricks of tears behind her eyes but she refuses to cry over her father being an obstinate ass. It takes her a few moments to come back to herself but when she does, Lacey can feel Gold's eyes on her.

She sighs, clears her throat and turns around, looks Gold in the eye.

“It's awfully late for a shop to be open,” Lacey says with a quick glance at the clock. It's past ten and Lacey's sure most people in Storybrooke have gone to bed by now. She wonders if Gold ever even goes home.

“It's awfully late to be out shopping,” Gold says after a beat, completely ignoring her question.

Lacey shrugs. “I felt like going out.”

“And rather than a bar, you chose my shop? I'm honored.” Gold always manages to sound both genuine and mocking at the same time, and Lacey admires that.

Lacey's lips curl into a smile. “Maybe I just wanted some peace and quiet? Though I could sure do with a drink,” she adds, looking at the cabinets behind the counter where she's sure he keeps the booze. There's no way a man like Gold doesn't keep alcohol around the shop, especially considering he practically lives there.

Gold looks at her for a moment with a surprised sort of half smile, like he can't quite make up his mind. Then he huffs out a laugh and stands up, heading to the cabinet and taking out a fancy decanter filled with amber and two glasses.

He sets them both on the counter as Lacey draws closer and looks up at her as he pours the glasses. “And what brought on the sudden need for silence?”

Lacey isn't sure why he's interested. Though she's never really talked to Gold beyond 'how much is this?' and 'good day to you, Miss French', she's heard enough stories about him and he doesn't strike her as the sort of person who cares about anyone's petty problems. Perhaps he's bored, she thinks.

“Just had enough shouting for the day,” Lacey says with a shrug. He hands her the glass and she drinks it down in one go. He looks at her with a cross between amusement and disgust, and it's comforting to think that Gold doesn't care one way or another about what she's done. He's only looking for an entertaining story or something to keep him busy and he doesn't care about her, so it doesn't matter what he knows.

“I stormed out on my dad,” Lacey concludes, gesturing for him to pour her another.

Gold nods. “Ah.”

“Yeah, ah. I'm just sick of living with him, you know,” Lacey says, pausing to down her drink. “He's so, I don't know, convinced he knows best. And I love him but he's so wrong. I'm an adult, I get to make my own decisions.” Lacey stares down into her empty glass, then picks up the decanter herself to fill it up to the brim. Gold winces a bit when she fills up her glass again, but doesn't mention it. “I guess it was time.”

“Well, most children do move out of their parents' house at one point or another,” he agrees, then adds with vicious pleasure, “And Moe French isn't quite the best father in the world.”

He grins there, sharp and smug, and Lacey can't help but take offense. Her father may be an idiot, but he's her father and he single-handedly raised her after her mother's death and he works hard for her. She might not be able to bear living with him, but she loves him all the same.

“Hey, he tries, at least,” she says, hoarse-voiced, as she puts her glass down. "He may not be perfect and he screws up a lot but at least he's trying." Suddenly, the shop feels claustrophobic with Gold's mocking smile across from her and her anger stirs up again, restless and buzzing. She's already turning away from the counter, heading towards the door when she looks at Gold and adds with a snarl, “What do you know about children, huh?”

For a moment, right before Lacey turns around to open the door, Gold looks absolutely wrecked. “Nothing,” he says, voice whiskey-raw. “Nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, again, turned out longer than it was supposed to and less shippy than I meant to but I wanted to sort of find my way around Lacey before writing anything shippy. I really liked writing Lacey and Gold, though, more so than Belle and Rumple in a way. Idek, I have a feeling I'll end up writing them some more.


	4. beware the curious ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle asks a question, Rumplestiltskin misinterprets, Belle is clever, Rumple is not. Daily life in the Dark Castle, really.

“Could you teach me magic?” Belle asks Rumplestiltskin one afternoon. It's four o'clock and she's come by to bring tea, rattling up the steps to his workroom with her little tea tray. For all that Rumplestiltskin had brought her in to serve him tea, he rarely bothered to come down for it so she'd sought him out instead. If Rumplestiltskin had to summarize his new caretaker in one sentence, that would be it, he'd thought one night. 

Rumplestiltskin looks up from his latest experiment. There's a sea witch down south who's willing to trade a very important, very powerful little pearl but only for a very powerful spell that can make the waves consume her enemies, and it's taking up most of his attention these days. He mostly thinks he heard her wrong.

“What did you just say?” he asks, perking up, surprised.

Rumplestiltskin is fairly good at understanding people, sizing them up and predicting their every move. He'd predicted Belle – noble and good and eager to please and full to the brim of love for her family – would do anything to save their little town. He hadn't predicted she'd be quite so conversational or curious or dare he say kind about it, but still. She was known as an odd girl, even in her own castle.

He'd never have predicted this.

Learning magic is for desperate people. People like him or Cora or Regina, people who feel so trod on by all the world that they _need_ a way to snap back. People who can send sparks from their fingertips through sheer force of their desperate anger, snarling like beasts. Not smiling near-princesses with kind eyes and soft voices.

“Could you teach me magic? If you wanted to, I mean,” she makes a vague gesture with her unoccupied hand, the other holding the tea pot. “Because it seems to me that if magic wasn't hereditary, everyone would be practicing it. So it must be something you're born with, right?”

Rumplestiltskin has never been so pleased to have misunderstood someone.

“That seems to you so because you don't know the first thing about magic,” he tells her. She hands him a tea cup and he's surprised to find his fingers relish in the warmth after the hours of work. He forgets, sometimes, that under the scales and thick skin he's human and even he gets human hurts.

“Why do you think I make deals?” he asks her, eyeing her shrewdly. She sits down on the stool he will always deny he placed there for her, while Rumplestiltskin takes his place behind his worktable again, this time turned to face her.

Belle seems to consider for a moment. “To entertain yourself?” she asks, seeming to be only half-joking.

Rumplestiltskin trills out a laugh. “No, no, dearie, all wrong.” He grins dangerously, wags a finger in her direction. “Seems your books can't teach you everything, hm?”

“Teach me, then,” Belle says and she sounds determined, the way she did when she agreed to come with him.

Rumplestiltskin grins a pleased little grin.

“Think, dearie, think. Why would I?”

He's not sure why he's bothering to teach her anything – why he's bothering to talk to her at all –except that she must get bored with no one else to talk to and Rumplestiltskin's mind fancies a break from all the work on the spell.

Belle looks at him, contemplative and serious. He can easily imagine her in her castle, hidden among stacks and stacks of books, staring intently at it in an attempt to take in all the information contained within.

“Remember what I always say?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

Rumplestiltskin can practically see the gears in her mind turning – her brows furrowed, eyes distant. He sips his tea and waits. He knows she's clever, not just well-read but quick-witted and he's sure she'll come up with the right answer soon enough.

“Is it the price, then?” she asks. “The price you always talk about, if you make a deal then someone else has to pay it, right?”

Rumplestiltskin grins and he's surprised to find himself genuinely pleased. “Exactly,” he says with an extravagant swoop of his arm, tea sloshing over the rim of his cup. Belle looks rather pleased herself, but in an almost relieved way, like no one's ever encouraged her to think. Rumplestiltskin realizes after a moment that that's probably true.

“If I make a deal with someone then I preform the magic for them and they pay the price,” he elaborates and he's surprised to find his voice closer to a normal pitch, less imp and more human. “The price for the safety of your loved ones was a life of servitude for you. I could have done the magic anyway, of course, but then I'd probably have lost my good leg,” he says with a self-deprecating grin, trying for his usual Dark One tone again. It's no good to seem too human or she'll think him soft and start slacking off, no doubt. Better to keep her on her toes, yes.

Belle's eyes flick down to his legs and when Rumplestiltskin realizes his slip of the tongue, he has to resist the urge to hit himself over the head with the dainty little teacup.

“Is something wrong with your leg?” Belle asks, curious as ever.

Rumplestiltskin sighs, and for a moment he feels all of his three hundred and something years as he remembers it. Then he shakes his head, “No, nothing at all. Don't you have rooms to dust?” he adds as he stands and puts the cup back on the tray, pretending that last part of the conversation never happened.

Belle does not look fooled, mouth already opening, no doubt to ask another needlessly intrusive question.

“Shoo,” he cuts her off, waving his hands towards the door. “Go clean or pester someone else. I have work to do.”

The message could not be any clearer than that though it could certainly be kinder, so Belle huffs and gives him and annoyed look and strides out of the room with her tea tray. Rumplestiltskin could swear she's extra loud as she goes down the stairs.

He doesn't know if in her absence he's breathing easier or the exact opposite.


	5. this constant leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lacey and Gold meet again and things go the same as ever, like they have a habit of doing in Storybrooke.

Lacey is smoking behind the diner on her lunch break when she sees Gold appear. She hasn't seen him since the night she stormed out of his shop, teary-eyed and thrumming, but he looks the same as ever. He wanders into the alley while on the phone, speaking with a hurried tone, and Lacey leans against the brick wall and watches him. She doesn't envy whoever it is on the other end.

He's still talking when he looks up and notices her and his brow furrows into a frown. Lacey gives a very fake, very cheerful smile and refuses to look away. Gold snaps something into his phone and presses the end call button with an annoyed eye roll.

“Sometimes I miss those flip phones,” he says dryly, putting his Blackberry in his jacket pocket. “They allowed for proper angry closing.”

Lacey snorts and eyes Mr. Gold. “I'm sure you don't need a flip phone to prove your point.”

Gold shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair and straightens his jacket. On anyone else it would look like preening. “So you're working at the diner now, then?”

Lacey inclines her head. “For a while.”

She takes a drag of her cigarette and stares at Gold. Gold, in turn, is looking at her with a puzzled sort of look, like he can't quite make up his mind about her. Lacey finds that hard to believe. She's a simple sort of girl, after all.

She hasn't forgotten what Gold last said about her father and she can almost see that it's on the tip of his tongue to make another unflattering remark, but it seems he hasn't forgotten her reaction either.

“Good. That's good.”

“Yeah.”

Gold nods vaguely. Lacey flicks some ash off her cigarette. She has nothing to say to Gold, not really. He isn't exactly her sort of person, she thinks, too calculating and cold, though she remembers the quick flash of heartbreak on his face before she stormed out and thinks there may be something like feeling under the layers of expensive suit. Lacey's never liked people who won't let their hair down every once in a while.

Gold looks at her for a moment, then seems to make a decision. “I could up his rent until he apologizes,” he suggests.

Lacey finds herself strangely charmed by the suggestion – which in a strange and almost morbid way is a sweet gesture – and it startles a laugh out of her, real and honest. She doesn't know who of them looks more surprised when it does.

“If I find out you did, I will hunt you down and stab you with gardening shears,” she says, trying to keep in her own smile. Moments like these convince her Gold does have a soul, and a personality and a sense of humor.

“I don't doubt it,” he says, and he's almost smiling too and he looks so very human suddenly that Lacey wonders how no one else sees it. It's there, sometimes, the little bits of humanity shining through in the way his eyes sharpen sometimes when she says something, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he does his not-quite-smile. It's small, but there are flashes of it all the same, glimpses in the periphery of her vision and it's intriguing, if only because Lacey's the only one to ever see it.

“Listen, Lacey,” he says after a beat. “Would you perhaps–”

And Lacey will never know what it is Gold thinks she would perhaps, because at that moment Ruby flings the back door open and shouts for Lacey.

“Your break was over like ten minutes ago and it's busy as hell, what the hell are you even doing?” Ruby asks, quick and annoyed like the older sister she might as well be, and it's only when she stops talking that her eyes drift to Gold, still standing there. He looks different now, drawn up and guarded again.

Ruby doesn't greet Gold and Gold doesn't say anything to her, and Lacey isn't quite sure what to do. Gold's looking somewhere over her shoulder, now, rather than at her and Lacey wants to get him to look at her, even if it's for only a second, to silently beg _just what where you going to ask?_

But Lacey isn't a begging sort of girl and for all his earlier almost-warmth, Gold is now purposefully avoiding her gaze like he's ashamed to be seen talking to her, so when she turns around to follow Ruby inside there's something angry and spiteful in the way she walks. And Lacey wonders if there will ever be a time when she doesn't walk out on everyone, but instead chooses to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about Lacey and Belle and how they're different and I thought it was a pretty neat thing if Lacey makes a habit of leaving Gold when Belle's thing is that she'll always stay by Rumple.
> 
> I promise, after this I'll write a fic that doesn't end in Belle walking out on Rumple. I don't know why I keep doing that, must be my inner angst-monger or something.


	6. soft hands, soft heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because the season one promo pictures included a knitting Rumple. I had to.

The only reason Lacey goes into the shop in the first place is that she wants to get Ruby something nice, just to say thank you for helping her get settled. Somehow, in some roundabout way, Lacey thinks with an amused mental headshake, Ruby can always be blamed for strange things happening.

When she gets into the shop the bell rings and it makes her head throb and she’s tired and her feet are aching from an eight hour shift of mind-numbing smiling and serving coffee to disgruntled middle-aged women and Lacey wants nothing more than to shower, but all of that is forgotten when she sees Mr. Gold appear from the backroom

“Hey, I was looking for -- oh."

Lacey blinks rather stupidly, staring at Gold. He’s leaning against the doorway,holding onto his cane with one hand and holding a mushed up ball of burgundy yarn and two knitting needles in his other hand.

“You knit?” Lacey asks incredulously, brows raised. Knitting is something she associates with kind old ladies with cat jumpers and floral patterned curtains, not the fearsome pawnbroker with a golden tooth. It looks horribly out of place.

And, Lacey thinks, lips twitching, strangely endearing.

Gold’s just looking at her with a significant look that practically screams _obviously_ and when he gestures to the knitting needles for emphasis Lacey holds her hands. “Okay, okay, I get it, stupid question.

Gold tilts his head as if to ask if there was any point to this visit, and he has that thing where just the slightest change in is stance is equivalent to four pages of monologue. Lacey envies him that.

“I was actually looking for something -- actually, could you do me a favor?” Lacey interrupts herself as a thought occurs to her.

“Do I seem the type to do favors?” he asks, limping towards the counter and dropping his knit work on it. Lacey approaches the counter cautiously, expecting him to somehow throw her out with a wave of his hand. When it doesn’t happen, she touches a hand to the knitting.

“Okay, so maybe not a favor. A deal, then. You like deals, don’t you, Mr. Gold?” 

He cocks his head like a bored bird who hears something that might maybe be interesting but is also miles away, and Lacey chooses to take that as a yes. Her father always said she was too brave for her own good.

“I was looking for something nice for Ruby, you know, as a thank you for all the help she’s given me since my bastard of a father threw me out,” Lacey says, and Gold does that thing again where his lips twitch and it speaks volumes. Yes, okay technically Lacey stormed out herself, whatever, Dad started it. “But making her something would be way better. How would you feel about showing me how to knit?” she asks, cocking her hip and putting on her most self-assured face, like she knows he’ll say yes. She’s half convinced he will, out of a sort of morbid curiosity if nothing else.

“A deal includes two interested parties. What, exactly, would you offer me?” he asks, and see, that’s a problem. Lacey has a lot of talents, but Gold doesn’t seem like the type who'd want to learn how to hustle pool or get four free drinks out of a guy before letting him down without starting a fight.

Still, she has her game face on. She can do this. 

“Whatever you want,” Lacey says with an extravagant gesture, feeling like a game show hostess revealing the grand prize.

“Your virginity, left kidney, firstborn child?” he asks snidely, and Lacey's hands fall to her side.

“Well, the last is never going to happen, the second wouldn't do you much good with the way I drink, and you're about ten years late on the first,” Lacey snarks back, hands on her hips. “Okay so not whatever you want. Something reasonable. I don't know, just say I'll owe you one.”

Lacey isn't really sure why she's gunning so hard for Gold to show her. It's not like there's no one else in the entire state of Maine who could teach her, but something about the thought of Gold knitting makes her strangely desperate to see it, which in turn irritates the hell out of her.

Gold's watching her with speculative look in his eye now, a sort of ominous twinkle that sends a sliver of something almost like fear through Lacey. She straightens her spine and looks right back. 

_Too brave for your own good,_ she thinks, grimly determined.

“Alright then. Come by tomorrow after the shop closes. It's your funeral,” Gold says, shaking his head and looking up at the sky like he's expecting the ceiling to cave in at any moment, or God to come down from his cloud and warn them not to.

Lacey can't help but feel accomplished.


End file.
